


Silk Slippers, Shirts, and Strings

by WhoTheBuckIsStucky



Category: EXO (Band), SHINee, SuperM (Korea Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Death, M/M, Red String of Fate, Reincarnation, Soulmates, Violence, and finally being able to fall in love and stay together, but like they come back so it's ok, really this is just taemin and jongin knowing each other across multiple lifetimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoTheBuckIsStucky/pseuds/WhoTheBuckIsStucky
Summary: Taemin and Jongin are members of rivaling dance companies. They usually don't compete against each other because Jongin does ballet and Taemin is more into contemporary, but this year, they're in the same category. They brush past each other backstage during rehearsals, and feel that something's familiar...“The world was made so that we could find each other in it.”—Jeanette Winterson, fromLighthousekeeping[currently on hiatus; should be back sometime march/april! sorry!]
Relationships: Kim Jongin | Kai/Lee Taemin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> We'll see about smut for this one. Mostly i'm just captivated by the red string of fate and the idea of past lives :) will be sad but also have a very happy ending so !

_“someone will remember us_

_I say_

_even in another time.”_

― **_Sappho_**

_1/2 (Jongin)_

Jongin tosses his empty coffee cup into the trash as he enters the building, giving himself a shake. He nods to a few classmates as he heads down the hall and up the stairs. Competition season is looming, and it’s worse for Jongin, who took many months off last year after a badly-sprained ankle. He still managed to stay in the world of dance by working as a teaching assistant for a few senior instructors at his studio, but it wasn’t the same.

As soon as he was cleared to dance, he threw himself right back into it. It was at the end of competition season, and the beginning of summer. The only problem was, he’d already fallen behind in his pointe training. He’d been dancing ballet and contemporary his whole life, but ballet was his home. With his ankle, however, there was no way to maintain the rigorous exercises while he healed. Over this year, he knows he can recover the time lost, but it’s too late for this season. So for the first time since he was very small, he’s going to be dancing contemporary at competitions.

He ducks into his practice studio, dropping his back and himself on the floor as the lights flicker on. He tugs off his sneakers and searches around in his bag for his contemporary half shoes. He’ll do his pointe training after rehearsing for his competition piece.

Really, it shouldn’t stress him out so much. He’s one of many dancers at their company, and he has every right not to get top marks next week. He was injured; he normally competes under the ballet category; there are plenty of other extremely talented dancers, many from his company. The thing is, Jongin is one of the rising stars. He’s meant for more than regional competitions and the standard ebb and flow of professional dance.

What’s worse, there’s an equally prestigious company in the same city that has an old rivalry with Jongin’s. Word is the people who owned them before the current owners had a dramatic falling out. No one really knows the whole story, but regardless, the competition between the two is fierce. They have a dancer around the same age as Jongin—fresh out of university, brimming with talent and drive—who is equally as promising. He dances contemporary and hip hop, but usually chooses the former for competitions. Most years, they catch glimpses of each other from afar. This year, they’ll be competing against one another, and Jongin has to win.

“Jonginnie-ssaem!” A tiny voice shakes him from his thoughts, and he tears his vacant gaze from the mirror to the doorway, where one of his kiddie ballet students from the spring is hovering.

“Wonjae-ah,” he replies, smiling. “Back from summer break?”

“I’ve been back for weeks!” the boy says, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “I was wondering where you were. So you’re all better?”

“More or less,” Jongin says, sticking his foot up in the air and rolling his ankle around and around in circles to prove it.

“So you won’t be teaching us anymore?” It’s not a question, really; Wonjae’s tone asks for confirmation.

“Not for a little while, at any rate,” Jongin tells him. “Jonginnie-ssaem has some big competitions coming up. But I’ll ask your teacher if I can drop in from time to time, whenever I’m free.”

“Okay.” Wonjae pouts, and then reaches out to give Jongin a hug around the shoulders. “We miss you.”

Jongin pats his arm, smiling. “I miss you guys, too.” He looks up at him, brow furrowed. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“We start at one,” Wonjae says, shaking his head. “So I should go.” He releases Jongin. “Good luck rehearsing.”

“Thank you.” Jongin waves, watching him as he trots back out the door.

Jongin puts on some background music and starts his warm-up, stretching long and deep, closing his eyes against the discomfort. He laughs a little to himself, remembering how in his classes when he was in high school and college, he and his friends would sit on each other to help get the most out of their stretching. The number of times Jongin’s life (or potential bloodline) had genuinely been in danger is too high to count. 

It does make him a little lonely, though. He finishes stretching and stands, changing the music and setting his phone down so he can warm up. Though more career opportunities and acclaim came with age, so did solitude. He and his friends had scattered after they graduated, and only a couple of them had ended up at the same dance company. Even with that, he rarely sees them. Each person is engrossed in their own work. It’s not that they don’t care anymore. It’s just that it’s no longer convenient.

His warm up tracks end, and he takes a minute to get a drink and prepare himself for the first run-through of his choreography. He watches his movements carefully in the mirror as he begins, feeling sweat bead on his forehead. He follows the trajectory of his arm, focusing on not tucking his thumb the way he’s used to—try as he might, his ballet habits, though hard to form, are even harder to kill. 

Ballet is cruel to your body in a way that no other form of dance can be. It tears up your feet, puts strain on every muscle and joint. It’s a selfish lover; it demands all of you and more; it’s strict and unforgiving. But if you find solace in it—if ballet manages to ensnare you with its beauty, you learn to love everything about it. Even the pain. And though it’s torture at times, Jongin adores it. There’s passion there he can’t find anywhere else. Though many people start with ballet and quickly move away from it, he kept at it from the beginning. Ballet is his first love, and even when he’s dancing in another style that he likes, he misses it.

“You’re pointing your toes.” Jongin snaps his eyes up, stumbling just a little, and sees a longtime friend and colleague in the doorway. 

“Yah, Timoteo-hyung.” Jongin sighs good-naturedly, dropping his pose and going to stop the music. “You scared me.”

“Well, no one else was going to tell you.” Timoteo peels himself off the wall and saunters over. “Unless you meant to have your toes pointed the whole time?”

“What if I did?” Jongin grumbles in vain; obviously he didn’t, and Timoteo knows this. He smiles as Timoteo draws near, accepting his hug. “Hi,” he adds. “How are you?”

“I’m good.” Timoteo steps back from the hug but keeps his hands on Jongin’s forearms. “Are you gonna be okay, leaving your greatest love at home?”

Jongin rolls his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s not like I’m putting ballet away forever. It’s just this year, and all I’m doing is putting contemporary first for the first time in, like, over a decade.”

“That’s how it starts, you know,” Timoteo jokes, shaking a finger at him. “Though with you, I’m not sure.”

“What, you think contemporary isn’t for me?” Jongin pouts, feigning great offense.

“No, I think you’re a great contemporary dancer,” Timoteo says evenly. “Good enough to beat that Lee Taemin, if you keep your head on right.”

“What, then?”

Timoteo shrugs vaguely. “You were pointing your toes,” he repeats. Jongin nods, and they’re silent for a moment. “Well,” he says. “I should leave you be. Big week you have coming up.”

“Dress rehearsals in three days,” Jongin says, nodding again. Some regional competitions like to invite the dancers in a couple days in advance just so they know where to go and what to do on the big day. It helps with processing day-of, and also helps dancers focus on their work and their performance. It’s nice, but it also steals half a day from Jongin that he could really use practicing.

Timoteo’s gaze softens a little; he claps Jongin on the shoulder. “You’ll do just fine,” he says. “I won’t tell you to break a leg or whatever. You don’t need my well-wishes to win.”

“Thanks.” It’s odd, but touching. “Buy me a meal if I do.”

“What?” Timoteo laughs, already on his way out the door. “No,” he says over his shoulder. “You buy _me_ a meal. To thank me for being a lovely, supportive hyung who always gives you the best advice. Bye!” He escapes before Jongin can retaliate.

It’s always been like this—Timoteo teasing him gently as he winds him down from his anxious spirals. Before Jongin met Timoteo, the competition world of dance always overwhelmed him a little, because he was convinced he had to be the best, even though he believed he wasn’t. He didn’t think he could have friends, always worried he may have to compete against them someday, always worried someone was out for him. And dance _was_ like that—sometimes. But not always. Timoteo was Jongin’s _not always._

Jongin remembers the day he and Timoteo became friends. He was young, only ten at the time; Timoteo had been eleven. Jongin had stayed late, and in his exhaustion, one of his ankles had given out—the very ankle, in fact, that Jongin had sprained so terribly last winter. Jongin thought he was going to have to hop his slow way down the stairs and to the front desk to get help, but Timoteo happened to pass his practice room as he was hobbling out. Jongin had glared fiercely at him, trying to get him to leave him alone, afraid of what he might do. But Timoteo had extended his hand.

“Stop it,” he said. “Come sit back down. I’ll get a nurse.”

“Yeah, right,” Jongin muttered, brushing his hand aside. “I’m fine.”

Timoteo sighed. “If you don’t trust me, then get on my back, and we’ll go see the nurse together.”

Jongin gave him a suspicious look. “What do you want?”

“To be friends?” Timoteo rolled his eyes, turning around and squatting. “C’mon, you need to get some ice on it.”

Against his better judgement at the time, Jongin saw no choice but to clamber onto his back. Luckily, that sprain had been light, and Jongin was on his feet in a few days time, good as new, with a new friend at his side. And even though Timoteo quit competition before they went away to college, he was still there for Jongin when he kept pushing; has been there all this time.

Jongin sighs, and gets back to rehearsing. He goes over his dance sequence again and again, concentrating hard on the minute details (and on _not_ pointing his toes). By the time he’s finally satisfied, and starting on his pointe exercises, it’s early in the evening.

Though he’s been working with pointe again for months now, his ankle finally strong enough to bear that kind of weight in small doses, his feet are still getting used to it. As a result, it tears up the skin. Besides, it’s physically exhausting, especially after hours spent rehearsing. He can’t do it for long today—can’t risk injury due to fatigue. Still, in the albeit short time he steps about, he works up a new layer of sweat. He stops when the droplets cling to his eyelashes like tears and blur his vision.

He tugs the shoes off, shoving them to the side to air out before he stuffs them back in his bag, wincing as he looks over his tortured feet. There’s fresh blood, though it’s not as bad as it’s been. Still, it hurts, and it’s about to hurt more, because Jongin digs around in his bag blindly for a bottle of New Skin—every pointe dancer’s faithful companion and worst enemy. He grits his teeth, groaning in pain as he sprays the liquid bandage onto his open skin, gasping against the way it sears at his wounds. Cursory self-care complete, he collapses onto his back, limbs splayed, head narrowly missing the wall behind him. He’s worked so hard, his body heat leaves steam on the mirrors.

⌯⌯ ❧ ⌯⌯

Dress rehearsals come sooner than Jongin would like. At the same time, though, he’s pleased with his progress over the last couple of days, so at least he’s not hurting for practice time. Besides, he’s itching to see the venue.

It’s busy, though it’s nothing in comparison to how it will be the day of the competition. Dancers flit everywhere. Jongin is handed a name tag with a red lanyard—they’re being color-coordinated by age and category, it seems—and ushered down a long hallway. The aide gives his group a cursory tour as they go, pointing out water fountains and the medical station.

They finally reach the waiting rooms. Each door has a sign taped to it with a company name; Jongin ducks into his and sees a few younger dancers blobbing around inside. Some are figuring out their lockers; others are waiting for their instructor to come back and get them, stretching on the floor and chatting to pass the time. A few look up when he enters, blinking wide-eyed at him. 

“Hi,” he says softly, awkward as ever, side-stepping around them to find a vacant locker. 

The air around him feels a little cold. Maybe it’s his melancholy nostalgia—once, he was like these young dancers, surrounded by friends and heavily chaperoned. Even if he was competing in ballet, he wouldn’t have anybody close to him, but at least he’d have the kids he instructed to keep him company. Most of his friends stopped competing or moved away; those who still compete are in different categories. Yixing and Sehun compete, often as a unit, with hip-hop; Kyungsoo does tap with a few friends Jongin isn’t well-acquainted with. They’ll be in and out of this room too, but the categories are held at different times. It leaves him quite alone. 

Once he’s put a few supplies in his locker, he escapes the room of children quickly. He finds himself following the signs to the stage. He emerges from a hallway near the front row, by the orchestra pit. He finds a door that leads backstage, and after worrying for a moment over whether it will trigger an alarm or not (and ultimately deciding that it won’t), he pushes it open.

He’s met with a flurry of movement. There’s dancers, instructors, staff members, and god knows who else dashing back and forth. Old friends reach for each other across the room; a harried-looking assistant holds a sparkly, expensive-looking prop high above her head as she tries to wade through the throng. Jongin skirts to the side, mostly intent on sketching out the layout in his head so he doesn’t stumble around in the dark later this week.

The middle area is less crowded; most people won’t be using it since they’ll only be entering and exiting the stage once. Jongin pads across it dutifully, anyway, keeping an eye out for uneven footing or stray nails—anything that could trip him up before his performance. His eyes are on the floor, and he doesn’t look up when the door leading to the other side of the stage opens.

Whoever opened it must not have been looking where he was going either, because their shoulders brush—unnecessarily, given the amount of space they have. Jongin looks up, surprised, and finds him staring into a face he’s only seen on a screen or for an instant across a large room. 

Taemin is wearing an expression of shock that Jongin is sure matches his own. _At least he’s caught off-guard, too,_ Jongin thinks. But as their eyes meet, an odd feeling of sorrow stirs in Jongin’s chest. He swears, just for a second, he smells the sharp tang of metal on metal. He’s hit with a strong sense of deja vu—Taemin’s eyes feel familiar, and not just from his past, distant encounters. His eyes are always hard then; he’s always performing. Now, they’re wide and unguarded, almost gentle.

Images flash through Jongin’s mind—a silk robe, traditional-style; hands on hands, maybe his own; a lone tree in a windy field; and eyes, Taemin’s eyes, filled with an emotion so heavy, Jongin doesn’t know how to give it a name.

They both blink, stepping away from each other almost unconsciously. 

“You’re Kim Jongin.” Taemin’s voice is a little higher than Jongin expected it to be, melodic and sweet.

“Yes,” Jongin replies, reeling too hard to really process it. “And you—you’re Lee Taemin, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Taemin nods quickly, the ghost of a bow.

They stare for a moment more, and then Jongin tears his gaze away, slipping out the door to the other side of the wings. Taemin doesn’t follow.

_2/2 (Taemin)_

“Taemin,” Sungwoon says nervously. 

Taemin raises his head slowly. “Yes?” he asks. Sungwoon rarely gets nervous, so it must be something. “You sound anxious for someone who isn’t competing in a week.”

“I just—have you checked out the lineup for the competition?” He extends his phone, walking closer so Taemin can reach it from where he’s stretching on the floor.

“No, why should it matter?” Taemin takes the phone anyway, though he doesn’t look yet. “My own performance has nothing to do with who I’m competing against.”

“Kim Jongin,” Sungwoon blurts, and _ooh, that_ is _reason for excitement._

“Jongin, huh?” Taemin peers down at the screen, and sees that Sungwoon is, in fact, not lying. “What on earth is he doing in _my_ category?”

“Remember how he hurt himself early on last year?” Sungwoon says, taking his phone back. “Apparently, his ankle still isn’t well enough for him to do ballet.”

“Why doesn’t he just take another season off to heal, then?” Taemin snorts. “I swear, it’s like all the ballet dancers want to kill themselves for their art.”

“Like you’re not the same way,” Sungwoon says, the usual edge of sarcasm working its way back into his voice. “You just don’t do it as viscerally or as beautifully.”

“If I wanted snide, unsolicited commentary, I would’ve asked Kibum-hyung to come in on his day off,” Taemin says, arching an eyebrow at his friend. 

“Duly noted.” Sungwoon pockets his phone. “I just thought you should know who you’re up against.”

“And I appreciate it.” Taemin leans back, crossing one leg over the other to open up his hip flexor. “But it doesn’t change anything. I’m still going to compete as I’ve always competed, and I’m still going to win. Jongin-ssi is in unfamiliar territory— _my_ territory. And he’s still hurt, and I bet that does nothing to help his mentality. He may move beyond the preliminary rounds, but he won’t get far.”

“Okay.” Sungwoon’s tone is politely neutral. “Text me when you’re done. Wonsik-hyung said he’d buy us a meal on account of him finally nailing that final move he’s been working on forever.”

“Ooh, will do. Jimin’s coming, too?”

“Obviously.” Taemin isn’t looking at him, but he can picture the eye-roll. The door clicks shut behind him without another word.

Taemin meets his own gaze in the mirror. _Kim Jongin_. He’d only seen him once or twice at various competitions. He’s seen pictures and videos, of course, but he’d never really studied him because his whole thing was ballet, which was no concern of Taemin’s. Now, though… It’s anticipation he’s feeling, he decides. He meant what he said to Sungwoon. It doesn’t matter who he’s competing against; he’ll perform as he always does: perfectly. Some little star who’s lost his way won’t change that.

It’s not that Taemin is full of himself—well, maybe a little. It’s just that he’s confident, and he knows what he needs to worry about and what he doesn’t. Sure, it’s nice to know Jongin will be in his category this year so he isn’t caught by surprise on the day of the competition, but it’s nothing to lose his mind about. He stands, stretching complete, and begins his warm up. His feet fall lightly on the floor, balanced and controlled, as he always is.

⌯⌯ ❧ ⌯⌯

“Ooh, you have real competition this year then,” Jimin says, stealing a piece of Taemin’s pork belly even though he can just get more from the dish in the center. 

“That’s rude,” Wonsik points out, but he’s grinning.

“In the first few rounds, I mean,” Jimin amends. “That guy these last few years—what was his name, Ten?—he’s really good.”

“Listen,” Taemin says through a mouthful of rice. “The guy hasn’t done anything serious with contemporary in years. I think you’re all overreacting.”

“Kibum-hyung would say to take it seriously,” Sungwoon says.

“Well, he’s not here right now. I’m sure I’ll get the lecture from him soon enough.” Taemin shakes his bangs out of his eyes with a rueful grin.

Sure enough, Kibum finds his way into Taemin’s practice room the day before dress rehearsals. He’s just finished up a class, and watches Taemin as he finishes practicing from the door. Taemin turns to face him with his ending pose, bowing low in greeting as the music fades. 

“How do I look, hyungie?” he asks cheekily as he straightens.

“Great,” Kibum says, rolling his eyes. “Do you have a minute?”

“I think I do whether I want to or not.” Taemin pads over to his items, nodding at Kibum to join him. He sits down and unscrews his water bottle, taking a long pull from it. “So?”

“Kim Jongin is competing in the same category as you this year,” Kibum begins, settling on the floor easily beside him.

“So I’ve heard,” Taemin replies.

“I just hope you’re taking him seriously,” Kibum says, and Taemin gives him an exasperated look. “Stop it.” Kibum points a finger at him. “I know you think it’s not a big deal because he’s a ballet dancer, but he’s not like your typical ballet dancer. A lot of them do ballet because it’s all they’ve ever really known, and they’re too timid or too set in their ways to branch out. Jongin-ssi does ballet because he has a genuine love for it. He’s very well-rounded, and incredibly talented in many other areas. I hope you’ll keep your wits about you.”

“Hyung,” Taemin says, feeling a little hurt. “It shouldn’t matter, right?”

“I just don’t want you to be flippant,” Kibum replies.

“I’m not a slacker!” Taemin defends, more than just a little hurt now. “You of all people should know that.”

Kibum’s eyes flash. “I’m not calling you a slacker,” he says, his voice cold and calm. “I’m just saying you tend to treat these regional competitions lightly just because you always make it past the first few rounds. Be careful that you don’t let your arrogance get the better of you.”

“What, are you saying you think I might lose to him?” Taemin shakes his head. “I’m _not_ arrogant, hyung, I just don’t see the need to expend undue energy. It’s not that I expect to win. I just don’t see the point in fretting over things I can’t control.”

“That’s not what I’m telling you to do.” Kibum huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Just—don’t get cocky, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Taemin stands, and helps pull Kibum to his feet.

“Alright, show me this damn dance,” Kibum says, and Taemin laughs. “If you do it perfectly, I pay for your dinner so you don’t have to cook.”

“Oh, deal!” Taemin scuttles over to start the music.

⌯⌯ ❧ ⌯⌯

Taemin heads to the venue in a bus provided by the company. Kibum and his modern dance class kids are with them; they all sit behind to two men, chatting and laughing. Taemin helps Kibum herd them off the bus and through the doors, where they receive name tags and lanyards. Kibum and the kids get a nice pretty shade of purple; Taemin gets a deep red. 

Once he’s dropped a few things off in the waiting room, Taemin does his usual scan of the stage. They held a competition here last year, though it was for later rounds, but it’s been a while, and Taemin always likes to check out the terrain. He starts on stage left, checking for sharp corners, peering out onto the stage briefly to see. It’s been scrubbed clean, one clear “x” of tape marking the exact center.

Taemin turns away, going to cross to the other side through the little back room. He keeps his eyes on the floor, watching for pitfalls as he opens the door. He realizes too late there’s another pair of feet coming his way, and he brushes the shoulder of the person they belong to, and looks up, opening his mouth to say sorry.

The words freeze in his throat. He’s never met Kim Jongin before, but he knows what he looks like—tanned skin, pretty eyes, and a jawline that could kill. Jongin blinks back, clearly just as surprised and thrown off as Taemin is. Their eyes meet, and Taemin’s mind suddenly provides him with flashes of what feel like memories—a man dressed in hanbok, waving in the distance; a lone tree in a wind-blown field; the clash of metal and the reek of blood; and Taemin’s own hand, outstretched before him, shaking and mangled, with a clean, silky red string tied neatly to his pinky, stretching off into the distance.

They’ve taken a couple of stumbling steps backwards from each other. There’s a keen familiarity to Jongin that Taemin doesn’t understand. His eyes are filled with curiosity. Confusion swirls through Taemin.

“You’re Kim Jongin,” Taemin says unnecessarily.

“Yes,” Jongin replies, sounding a little preoccupied. “And you—you’re Lee Taemin, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Taemin doesn’t know what else to say; he inclines his head in greeting.

There’s a moment of stillness, and then Jongin turns away, slipping out the door without another word. Taemin unfreezes, but he doesn’t follow. 

He finishes his scan of the stage still lost in thought. _What was that?_ He wonders to himself as he meanders back down to the main floor. _It was almost like I knew him. But that’s ridiculous! Where did all of that even come from?_

Kibum finds him waiting in the lobby, kids in tow, about a half an hour later, and he’s still musing. “What’s got you so quiet?” Kibum asks as they lead the kids back out to the parking lot.

“Nothing,” Taemin says slowly. He doesn’t know how to begin to explain it. “I ran into Jongin-ssi backstage.”

“Oh?” Kibum raises his eyebrows. “And?”

“And nothing,” he replies, brushing him off. “We introduced ourselves, that was all.”

“Was it… a civil exchange?” Kibum asks, worry clouding his tone.

“Yes, _eomma_ ,” Taemin says, earning himself a slap on the arm. “We said hi, that’s all.”

That night, Taemin’s dreams are strange. Jongin is there, though he looks a little different. He’s younger; his black hair is long, and he wears simple robes. Taemin finds himself next to him under that lone tree. He holds Jongin’s hands in his; he’s trying to tell him something important, but he can’t hear his own voice. He’s ripped from scene to scene—first in a small house, at the dinner table; next, on a boat, surrounded by strangers, and finally, the same image of his bloodied hand, reaching up as he lies gasping in the dirt, a red string attached to his pinky finger. His other hand trembles as he strains to lift his sword. It _hurts_ him everywhere to do it, but he doesn’t stop. He slices upward, and severs the string. It dissipates into nothing.

The last thing he sees before he wakes is unforgiving, glaring sunlight. He closes his eyes, breathing out a sigh of relief. The shrill ringing of swords clashing fills his ears, mixed with violent screams. It doesn’t matter, though. What’s done is done.

Taemin wakes shaken and confused. He doesn’t feel rested, though according to his sleep tracker, he’s been out for almost nine hours. He lurches unsteadily to the bathroom, splashing some cold water on his face. He looks up at his reflection, turning his head side to side. For a moment, he doesn’t even recognize himself. _What’s happening to me?_ he thinks. _Am I going insane?_

The vivid imagery of the dream fades throughout the day, but the feeling of desperate longing clings like static. It’s two days before the competition, and his performance has never looked worse. But worries over his form pale to his turmoil. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Wonsik asks, half concern, half derision.

Taemin shakes his head. _What’s gotten into me?_ It’s a great question. He doesn’t know how to respond.


	2. two

_“Come and find me_

_when we leave this place._

_When we wake from this dream._

_I am sure that I will still be in love with you.”_

**_—The Infinite Spark Of Being_ **

_1/2 (Taemin)_

Taemin paces in the courtyard, keeping his eyes trained on his feet, and trying to ignore the fact that he is very much being watched. Jongin never means to put him in an awkward position, but Taemin wonders if he ever realizes how it feels to be a commoner, standing in the heart of a luxury he likely will never be able to afford. He’s looked upon as a potential thief. The scrutiny almost makes him want to turn into a real thief—at least he’d get something out of it.

Taemin hears faint chatter, and looks up at the sound of Jongin’s footfalls with a bright smile, waving with the hand holding his sword.

“Jonginnie!” he calls, relieved. “You promised to be on time.”

“Sorry,” Jongin says, making his way down the stairs to greet him, adjusting his robes. His long black hair is sleek, clearly freshly-combed; it catches the air a little behind him in his haste. “I woke up late.”

“You’re lucky I don’t have many other friends,” Taemin says, leading them back out of Jongin’s family house. “Only a fool would spend one of his rare days off waiting.”

“It’s still early,” Jongin protests. “Come, we’ll stop at the market on the way, and I’ll pay for our food.”

“At least you know how to apologize,” Taemin says, grinning and slinging an arm over Jongin’s shoulders. “Put your high-class upbringing to some good use.” Jongin just grins.

Taemin was born into an exceptionally poor family. He has an older brother, so he knew from the beginning that if he wanted anything, he would have to work for it himself. Jongin, on the other hand, had been born into a high-caste family; his father is an advisor to a captain who serves General Gang Gamchan directly, and his mother’s family has always been rich. Jongin is his father’s eldest and only legitimate son, so he’s had everything he’s ever wanted from the day he was born.

It’s clearly reflected in their positions in the army. The conflict between Goryeo and Khitan had begun a few years before either of them were born. War was now brewing, and while Jongin was able to join the army as an inspector, keeping him a step back from the front lines, Taemin was only able to enlist as a mere foot soldier, meaning it would be more difficult for him to get acclaim, and much easier for him to be killed. They try not to talk about it. Even more than his own death, Taemin fears Jongin being left on his own.

They stop by a tavern on their way out of town and pick up some bread. Taemin smiles, cradling the buns, which are still warm, as Jongin drops a few coins into the tavern worker’s hand. 

It’s a cold day, and the wind picks up as they head out of town. The tips of Taemin’s fingers are cold by the time they reach their favorite spot—a little field on a hilltop with a huge, lone _neutinamu_ and a small pond. 

Taemin flops into the grass under the tree with a soft grunt, smiling. “It’s been forever since we’ve been up here. We used to come every day as children! And now we hardly come at all.”

Jongin lies down next to him, resting his head in his hands. “That’s the problem with no longer being children, I suppose.”

“How are things with your family?” Taemin asks delicately. 

“My mother is trying and failing to be subtle about her desperation for me to marry,” Jongin replies. “She was successful with my eldest sister, and the other one is surely soon to follow. Right now, I have the war as a valid excuse, but once it’s over, it’s really only a matter of time.”

“I see.” Taemin keeps his tone light, because there’s really no other way either of them can bear to be about it. “Well, one of the advantageous parts of being poor is that my parents are more interested in me being successful than in me being wed.” He turns to look at Jongin, expression arranged into one of overdone sympathy. “You poor thing, you have to do both.” Jongin just rolls his eyes.

They’ve never talked about it—what would be the point, really? It’s not like they could ever get what they wanted and live, so there’s no point in tempting themselves with even the shadow of it. But Taemin isn’t lying when he says he’s glad he doesn’t have to marry in order to secure his place in the world. He can be a war hero and a notorious bachelor, and it should set him up nicely for the rest of his life. Nobody needs to know why—that he’s in love with his best friend, who he can never have, and never tell.

At times he entertains the idea that Jongin may love him back, but Jongin has never said anything, and Taemin has never asked. It wouldn’t do them any good, but at least he’d feel a little less alone. There are times he’s certain of it—like right now, when Jongin reaches for the bread he bought and uses one of his knives to slice it in half. His hand slipped a little, and one side is a bit smaller than the other. Taemin pretends not to notice how Jongin covers the smaller piece so Taemin can’t compare them, and hands the bigger side back to him. Taemin pretends not to notice how their hands brush when he takes it.

“They tell you where you’ll be stationed?” Jongin asks after a few moments, taking another bite of his bread.

Taemin nods. “The Garrison Settlement of Heunghwajin. The Khitans will approach from the southeast, and we will be waiting.”

Jongin sighs. “We leave in a week for our posts,” he says. “And if we do well, we may even remain in the capitol. There’s no telling if we will come home right away.”

Taemin catches his meaning. “Perhaps you will become a great warlord, surpassing your father in rank,” he teases. “Or perhaps I will bravely save an officer’s life and beat back the Khitans myself, and earn a position in court.” He grins, reaching out for Jongin’s hand and grasping it tight in his own. “Let’s plan to meet a full lunar cycle after the last day of battle, here, so that if either of us are delayed for our valor, the other won’t worry when he doesn’t show up right away.”

Jongin looks around, a faint smile on his lips. “Sure,” he agrees, his eyes finally landing on Taemin. “Right here, under this tree.”

⌯⌯ ❧ ⌯⌯

Taemin rolls a pebble under his foot, looking up intermittently to scan the horizon. According to scouts, the Khitans are about a day from their camp. They will meet them in battle in the morning. He shivers, thinking of the thousands of men, all mounted on horses. He knows all he can do is try to dodge hooves and spears.

He’s tapped on the shoulder by another member of his unit. “Your shift is over,” he tells him. “I think food is being served still.”

“Thank you.” Taemin inclines his head, stepping away and heading to dinner.

Naturally, he doesn’t sleep well that night. He watches the moon, and wonders what Jongin is up to. The last time he saw him they were on their way home. There’s a road near the market where they always split off; Jongin goes east, and Taemin goes west. Taemin remembers reaching a turn and looking back to see Jongin, all the way down at the other end, looking too. He waved at Taemin, jumping a little to make sure he had his attention.

He does manage to doze in the late hours of the evening, and soon he’s being roused by a captain. There’s nothing for it now. The day has come.

Taemin is of the lowest rank, so he has only been outfitted with a simple vest that has extra padding over his sword arm, a thin helmet, and boots. The rest of his uniform consists of basic robes, so very soon, he’s picking up his sword and falling in line with his fellow soldiers.

They are informed that soon, the Khitan army will cross the dried-out stream that lies at the bottom of the hill, and they will meet them here on the hillside. “You are our first line of defense between the Khitans and the capitol,” they’re told. “You are vital in the protection of our country.”

Taemin doesn’t care about the country. All that matters is Jongin— _I will fight well and live so I can see Jongin again, or I will fight well and die so that this force will not reach the city, and Jongin may live._

Too soon, Taemin hears the thundering of hooves in the distance, and a horn sounds. He readjusts his grip on his sword, and watches the army approach. The noise grows until it echoes in his ears. He can’t even hear himself think; by some grace, he misses the spear aimed at his chest as the first wave of cavalry tears past; he slips, tumbling down the hill. 

A sword swings down towards him; he blocks it, staggering under the force of it as he scrambles for his footing. He blocks another blow, and another, ducking and swiping where he can. Finally, his sword meets solid flesh, and he watches as the soldier he’s fighting drops to his knees, screaming in pain as blood from his leg stains his robes. Taemin doesn’t hesitate; he runs his sword across the man’s throat in one swift movement, and the soldier collapses.

Taemin whirls, now aware of the shouts around him, the clanging of metal, and above all, the thick, heavy stench of blood. Taemin thought he knew what blood smelled like—he'd killed cows before with his brother; he’d gone to retrieve the cuts after the meat had been drained and the blood had collected in trenches at the edges of the room. The scent of it was dizzying and pervasive then; now it almost knocks him off his feet. It blankets the smell of the grass and the dirt, fills his nostrils and his lungs until he’s choking on it.

Bile rises in his throat as he looks over hundreds of dead bodies, stained red and brown with the mud so that it’s hard to tell which side they were on. His breath quickens as he turns, trying to pinpoint his next attacker. But he’s surrounded by corpses; most of the other soldiers are either nearing the top of the hill, or still coming. 

He sees a soldier he recognizes from training struggling to fight off a larger Khitan, and he picks his way across the field to help. Another wave of soldiers is nearing; perhaps they can fight off this man together and then watch each other’s backs. But over the pounding of hooves, he hears a distant roaring, almost like the rushing of a waterfall. 

He turns and sees that in the distance, the stream is being filled, and things begin to click into place. They waited to face the Khitans here instead of meeting them earlier because they needed the dammed river to drown the soldiers and even the odds. He’s frozen in place, watching as the water races nearer, as it rounds the bend and comes into view of the Khitan soldiers right in its path.

And then, there’s a great searing pain through his abdomen, and Taemin looks down to see the bloodied tip of a sword sticking out of his stomach. He stares at it, unable to process what it means, and then it disappears, back out the way it came, and he’s falling, falling, falling.

There are screams in the distance from the drowning horses, and the shrill noise of metal singing as it’s whipped through the air. A stray arrow flies overhead, and all Taemin can do is gurgle, clutching at the hole in his stomach, too shocked to even feel the throbbing of his wound, nor the fresh gush of blood with every beat of his failing heart.

He feels something tug at his fingers and he lifts his bloodied hand up in front of his face so that it blocks out the sun. There’s a gash across his knuckles. He doesn’t know when he got it. Dirt is smeared into the opening. 

What’s more curious, though, is the silken red string, strong and clean, that is tied to his pinky finger. It stretches off into the distance; Taemin doesn’t have the strength to raise his head, but he’ll bet anything it points northeast, toward the city where Jongin is stationed, probably pacing some palace wall.

The red string of fate only appears when two fated lovers are so intricately tied that a rapidly approaching event or decision will deeply affect both parties. In happy circumstances, this would be at the couple’s wedding. More commonly, and more tragically, it occurs when one party is to marry someone else, when an important life event threatens to greatly influence the course of the relationship, or when one party is on the brink of death.

In these moments, the lovers have three choices. One: follow the string and meet; two: ignore the string and risk its influence later in life; or three: cut the string, freeing both members of the pair in the current lifetime.

Taemin is dying, and Jongin was his soulmate all along.

Now a tear slips down his cheek; now the agony of his wounds blares in his mind, unforgiving. Taemin is dying, and Jongin will know it. Jongin will see the string, and know what it means—he will try to follow it, and then it will disappear, and Jongin will know he is alone.

If Taemin doesn’t sever it, Jongin will never be able to move on, even if he does survive the war. He will marry someone and not be able to look upon her face without loss and grief clouding his eyes. If Taemin doesn’t sever it, Jongin will never be free of him, no matter what he does; no matter where he goes. If Taemin doesn’t sever it, Jongin won’t get to live.

He forces himself to lift his sword, though every minuscule movement is misery. Maybe he’s screaming. He doesn’t know. All that matters is that he cuts the string before the welcome comfort of death takes him and Jongin is tied to a ghost. 

He gives one last heave, trembling with the labor, and his sword cuts through the string. It disappears entirely, and Taemin drops both hands back to the ground, closing his eyes.

The battle rages on around him, though the noises grow dim. _I hope you slept late, like you always do_ , he thinks. _I hope you didn’t see it. I hope you live the rest of your life never knowing of our bond. Maybe if we’re reborn again, in a different time, in different bodies, we can try again._

For now, though, the only thing that lies before him is soothing, endless dark.

_1/2 (Jongin)_

Jongin wakes with a jolt, startled into consciousness by a horrible feeling of loss. He thinks he sees a thread, or maybe a shadow, disappear as he opens his eyes, but he’s not sure. All he knows is something is wrong; there’s a new empty space in his chest.

He sees the sun is already high in the sky, and realizes that once again, he’s overslept. He scrambles to get dressed, hurrying down the hall and out into the open air. He sees his father crossing the courtyard below, and quickens his pace so he can meet him.

They are staying in an auxiliary residence on the edge of the capitol. Though Jongin is only an inspector, his father’s position allows him to stay away from the camp located a few hours south. They are expecting the Khitans in a day or two—if they manage to break through the force stationed near the Garrison Settlement of Heunghwajin.

Jongin’s stomach sinks as he reaches the ground and waits for his father in the gateway, hands clasped before him and head bowed. Daybreak was hours ago, which means the battle has already begun. As he waits here, sword sheathed, nearly forgotten in his room not moments before, Taemin is fighting for his life.

When Taemin took his hand that day in their field and told him to meet him under their tree after the war was over, Jongin wishes he told him to stay safe. He wishes he could’ve found the bravery to bring Taemin’s hand up to his lips, even if it meant Taemin would snatch his hand away and never speak to him again. He wishes he could have said and done a lot of things, but all he did was nod, and agree. And now… the empty feeling tugs at him; insistent, gnawing.

“Any news?” Jongin asks when his father draws near.

“Our army has engaged the Khitans by the river,” his father says, not breaking stride as he enters the covering of the roof. Jongin follows him back inside. “It’s unlikely they’ll make it here, not with the reserve forces stationed along their entire route.”

“Do you think that…” Jongin trails off.

“Your friend may survive,” his father replies. “It depends how close to the front he was.” He looks Jongin over. “Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Get something to eat. We have meetings in the afternoon,” he tells him, gesturing him in the direction of the kitchens.

“We?” Jongin asks, confused.

“I do, and I told the captain you would be there,” his father says. “It’s time you were involved.”

Any other day, Jongin would jump at the chance to learn, to make himself useful. But the fearful, empty feeling dampens any excitement he has. He just nods, and goes to find something to eat.

The next couple of days pass without consequence, other than Jongin’s enduring melancholy. He can’t understand where it comes from—there’s no way for him to know what happened to Taemin, but dread still pulls at the back of his mind.

He never has to draw his sword. It only makes him feel worse; though he saw no violence and no bloodshed, he feels rattled, and when he returns home, he spends most of his time in his room, speaking only to his family and eating very little. He can only wish he is wrong, and that Taemin will be there to meet him under their tree. There are a million reasons he could have been delayed, but Jongin can’t find more than a shred of hope in his mind. Still, he counts the days, watches the phases of the moon.

His sister watches him get ready that morning, hovering in the corner of the room. “Do you want me to come with you?” she asks. “I promise I won’t slow you down. I know the way.”

“No,” Jongin says. “I will be alright. Besides, I thought Mother needed you today.”

His sister smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “She can spare me,” she says, “if it’s for you.”

“I’m alright,” Jongin repeats, fastening his outer robe and putting a hand on her arm. “I’ll be back tonight.”

“Alright.” She bows, and Jongin slips out the door.

He keeps his head down the whole walk to the field. He stops once in the market to get their favorite bread, and he cradles it to his chest. To soothe himself, he imagines reaching the top of the hill to see Taemin waiting, pacing the way he always does with his hands behind his back. He’ll turn, and the wind will blow his bangs from his face as he laughs and tells Jongin that he’s late.

The wind sends the cold straight into his bones as he climbs the hill. The skies are grey, and rain threatens. Jongin wishes he dressed more warmly, but it’s too late now. The chill only gets worse as he reaches the top, where he is entirely unsheltered. Taemin isn’t there.

Jongin walks to their tree slowly, and drops to the ground under it, resting his back against the trunk. He knew from the beginning Taemin wouldn’t come. He knew ever since the day he woke up late and found a hole in his heart; a pit of loneliness where his care for Taemin was supposed to go.

He knows Taemin will never come. If he was lucky, his body was carried back to camp and later sent to his parents for burial. More likely, he was left in the bloody field to be trampled by horses as the remaining Khitans advanced towards the capitol. Jongin is alone. He doesn’t move to leave, though. He’s not sure how he can bear to be around other people with an anguish this acute to carry. 

He feels tears gathering, heavy, on his waterline, and he brings a hand up to catch them, leaning his head back against the tree. The pain isn’t as foreign as he thought it would be, and he realizes now that he’s been grieving for Taemin ever since he first enlisted.

It isn’t like they could have been together. Unconventionality aside, Taemin was always too ambitious to be tied to any person, and Jongin had his family’s expectations to meet. But it doesn’t change the fact that Jongin felt for Taemin in a way he doesn’t dare name, not even in his thoughts. All he knows is it would be easier to live in a world with Taemin in it than without. 

He’s not sure how long he must sit there, but the day has been dragging on, and soon his family will begin to worry. He can’t wrench himself to his feet, even when his tears are gone, even when it gets so cold he shakes.

Suddenly, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, and sees his sister smiling down at him, eyes kind. “I thought you might find it hard to come home,” she says softly. “Come on.” She hands him a thick robe. “You’ll freeze sitting here like this.” Jongin stands and puts it on numbly, mumbling his thanks. His sister takes his arm but doesn’t pull him away, just looks at him with a knowing sadness. “He’s not coming, is he?” she asks quietly. 

Jongin drops his gaze to his feet. “No,” he says. “No, he’s not.”

“You knew this morning before you left.” His sister tilts her head. “Why did you still come?”

Jongin takes a few steps away from the tree, pulling his sister along in the direction of home. He looks back for a moment, and then sighs. “I made a promise,” he says. “Come on.” He takes the first step down the hill, and reaches up to help his sister. “Let’s go home.”

⌯⌯ ❧ ⌯⌯

To Jongin’s surprise, his grief doesn’t paralyze him for long. Within a few months, he meets the daughter of Royal Advisor Jung. Her name is Soo, and their fathers are friends. She is kind and sweet; she and her sister are both known for their astounding beauty and perfect manners. Their mothers quickly come to an agreement, and they are married in the summer. They move into a residence closer to Sodong, where Jongin begins his work as a military advisor, learning from both his father and his father-in-law.

Jongin finds Soo more than agreeable, and they are happy together. They learn quickly how to take care of each other, and by autumn, they are expecting their first child. All the doctors say it will be a boy. Before the cold gets too harsh, they travel to visit Jongin’s mother and sister at their childhood home.

While his mother dotes on Soo, Jongin catches up with his sister. Though finding a match for both their eldest sister and Jongin proved easy enough with time, his second sister is struggling. All her suitors are unfit in some way; either they don’t rank highly enough for their father’s approval, or they are not compatible.

“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” his sister asks quietly as they walk the grounds arm in arm. 

“What?” Jongin says. “Don’t be silly. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“But I can’t find a suitable husband,” she frets. “I’m afraid I’ll never find someone who is right for me, and I’ll die alone and unloved.”

Jongin gives her a reassuring smile. “You forget it took _nu-i_ really long time too, at first. But she found her love in the man that is now her husband.” He looks up at the clear sky, blowing out a breath and watching it fog in the cold air. “Our parents, too, found their lifetime love in each other, and someday, probably soon, I’m sure you will find yours, too.”

His sister stops walking and looks up at him. “And what about you?” she asks. “I know you and Soo like each other. It was a good match. But I find it hard to believe she’s your greatest love.” Jongin shakes his head, and she nods. “Then you haven’t found yours, either.”

Jongin just smiles and pats her hand where she clings to his arm. “I loved Taemin, _paboya_ ,” he says gently.

Her eyes go wide. “Oh!” For a moment they’re still, and then she wraps Jongin in a tight embrace.

When they finally circle back to the main house, their mother and Soo are waiting with fresh tea. Soo reaches out to Jongin as he takes his seat beside her, and he smiles. It’s not that he’s forgotten Taemin, or has tried to replace him. He knows they’ll have another chance; he knows it with more surety than anything else. He’ll live well in this life, with Soo at his side, and later, when he’s called back from the darkness into a new life, he knows Taemin will be there, waiting. He loves him now, and he will love him then, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> 
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